


Trouble

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, F/M, Kinky, One Shot, Oral Sex, PWP, Public Blow Jobs, Self-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: You’re at a royal function. It’s boring. Geralt isn’t entertaining you. You entertain yourself. With him. Under the table.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 7
Kudos: 164





	Trouble

You mash the overly-ripe strawberry on your dessert plate with the back of your tiny golden fork, watching the red mush burst through the tines. Around you, the last of the decadently dressed individuals attending the soiree are dancing, or sat in small conversational groups, or pestering the servants for more wine. Jaskier is across the room, a lady of the court on either side of him as he gesticulates wildly, no doubt embellishing some story involving Geralt, who is sat to your right. He’s watching the room with hawkish eyes, occasionally sipping from his goblet.

“I’m bored.” You tell him for the third time, fussing with the laces on your uncomfortable corset. He grunts in reply, but doesn’t shift his gaze to you, apparently deep in thought. You want to throw a walnut at a guard, or pinch the arse of a passing noble and point at the Witcher, or something, _anything_ to break up the tedium of the stuffy affair. You love travelling with Geralt and Jaskier, but you hate this sort of thing.

Unfortunately, Jaskier makes a lot of coin at this sort of thing, and it’s coin you could all use. Also unfortunate is the bard’s reputation for tumbling head-first into trouble, particularly with married men – although he would always swear up and down that he thought the maiden he’d wrongly bedded was not spoken for. He has a blind spot for wedding rings, apparently. And so here you sat, a second sword for hire – not that Geralt needed the assistance, but he likes having you close, and you worry about him when he is gone.

You sigh dramatically, about to headbutt Geralt in his massive bicep just so he’ll pay attention to you, but you’re distracted by the brush of the long silky tablecloth against your bare ankle as you shift in your seat. The table is high, and Geralt’s legs are tucked beneath it. A wicked idea tiptoes across your mind, and you decide that if he’s not going to amuse you, then you’ll simply find a way to amuse yourself.

A quick glance around you assures you that nobody is paying you any mind – the gawking at the Witcher has long since stopped, the novelty worn off – and with a single quick movement, you bend backwards, sliding from your seat and under the table, shrouded from any eyes by the long cloth on both sides. This gets his attention, naturally.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” He asks, glancing down at where he presumes you are beneath the table. His fingertips lift the edge of the cloth slightly and he peers at you with furrowed brows, entirely confused. “Did you drop something? I know you’re bored, but you’re being ridiculous. Get back up here.”

You ignore him, choosing instead to part his knees with your hands and squirm between his large thighs. It suddenly dawns on him that you’re not fossicking about under there as if in your very own fort; no, you have _intentions_ , and they are definitely lewd. His body can’t help reacting to the thought of your mouth, his cock stirring in his trousers, and hurriedly he drops the tablecloth, lifting his head back up so as to not draw attention to himself. “Y/N, _no._ You can wait until we get back to our room.” His voice is a low, commanding rasp, but you’re not feeling like following orders. “Jaskier needs our— _mmmh._ ” You palm his awakening cock, clever fingers flicking the laces open with ease, and he realises there’s no real way to get out of this without drawing direct attention to both of you. So he carefully shifts closer to the table, opening his legs wider, allowing you better access.

Grinning with triumph, you pull him free from the confinement of his pants, squeezing his hardening shaft as you pump him, hearing him grunt into the rim of his goblet as he attempts to act naturally, even as his hands itch to slip beneath the table and guide your head to him. You wish you could see his face. Instead, you content yourself with wetting your lips, and circle the crown of his dick with them, a slow near-silent slurp, a swirl of tongue. Above you, you hear silverware clatter slightly, and delight fizzes within you.

You’re used to his size and how he likes to be pleasured this way, and you know your position is rather illicit, so you don’t waste time in easing him into your wanting mouth, your nose nudging the hard slant of his pelvis as you do so, and you feel him tense up completely above you as he fights the feelings of pleasure versus the appearance of propriety.

It’s that exact moment that Jaskier chooses to wander over, lute under one arm, his features jovial with inebriation.

Geralt’s glare is white-hot, a blazing warning, but the bard either doesn’t notice it, or presumes it’s just the Witcher’s usual level of contempt. With a happy sigh, he deposits himself at the table across from Geralt, chuckling.

Maybe you should stop, release him from your mouth, and wait for Jaskier to go away. Instead you swallow around him, your tight throat flexing, his cock throbbing hard in response. Slowly, you draw your lips back up, cheeks inverted with suction, soundless.

“Go away.” Geralt orders Jaskier, and you hear the sultry husk in his gritty voice. Naturally, Jaskier is offended, and does not do as he is bid.

“And _that’s_ how you’d greet your best friend? Your provider of food and wine for the evening? The man that’s paying you? Rude, Geralt. Isn’t Y/N teaching you manners?” He drinks messily from his cup. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Bed.” The Witcher grits, monosyllabic, as you quietly release his cock, only to tease the weeping tip with your tongue, lapping at his precum. The leather of his boots squeak as he curls his toes in them. “ _Go away,_ Jaskier. I’m busy.”

“No you’re not,” You hear the retort, “And wow, she went to bed? _Without_ you? She must’ve been tired. Or she’s had enough of your sourpuss, too. Listen, it’s my job as your best friend to help you socialise. You’re sat here looking like an angry bear, and you’re scaring anyone away from talking to you.” You want to laugh, but instead you just run your tongue from base to tip of Geralt’s length, before swallowing him down again, thumbs rubbing circles into his inner thighs. Again his abdomen fists beneath his dress-shirt, tensing, the kick-pulse of his cock on the roof of your mouth evidence of your skill.

“Good.” Geralt manages to hiss, and you hear him pick up his goblet, probably to disguise a noise into the wine.

“Not good. You look like you might _murder_ someone. Get up, and come meet my lady-friends.” You hear the bard stand up behind you, and imagine he’s extending a hand, because you hear the slap of flesh as Geralt smacks it away. Your nose has brushed his trimmed pubes again, and you begin to bob your head in a rhythm that is slow, silent, and intense.

“ **No.** ” Is the answer, and it’s like low thunder, “I said _ **go away.**_ ” His voice catches on the last word. You can feel the unevenness of his breath. Thankfully, Jaskier is too drunk to notice, although he does make a noise of offence.

“Fi- _ine_.” The bard draws out the word, and you can see his pout in your mind’s eye. He must have taken his lute out, because Geralt’s next words almost make you snort and give the whole game away.

“If you play that cursed song, I’ll toss your lute— _nngh,_ into the fire, and _you_ after it.” The threat is snapped, and apparently real enough that Jaskier finally takes the hint, raising his hands in surrender and stalking back over to the giggling women awaiting him, loudly complaining about Witchers and their moodiness and how _unfair_ it is to be treated so _poorly_ when he’s _such_ an artist, and doesn’t Geralt know how _famous_ he’s made him and…

“Y/N,” Your Witcher whispers huskily above you, “You’re fuckin’ _killing_ me.” One of his hands is still around the goblet, but the other is at the table-edge, gripping the wood. You say nothing in reply, continuing your steady suction, drawing him in and out of your talented mouth, hot tongue wriggling at the underside of his thrumming cock.

Now that Jaskier is gone, it’s safe for him to make the occasional huff of pleasure, but you know he’s struggling. You are not so cruel that you’d tease him forever; you quicken your pace, palm his heavy balls, and concentrate on worshipping the aching, reddened crown of him, sensitive and responsive.

“Fuu _uuck_.” You hear him growl lowly, and the sound of wood creaking tickles your ears as he grips the table harder, “Fuck, Y/N, I’m– I’m fucking _coming._ ”

You draw him deeply into your mouth as his cock spasms wildly in the restriction of your throat, his orgasm intense, scalding come rushing down your eager tongue, each thick torrent swallowed as it is offered to you in potent bursts, his hips jerking toward you in spasms he can’t control, every muscle of his body cobra-coiled in the delirium of his release. You know he wants to moan, but instead he huffs small breaths through the experience, riding it out, utterly spending himself in the divinity of your mouth until he’s drained and lax, and you withdraw from him, cleaning the tip of his cock lovingly, before you tuck the twitching length back into his trousers and lace them up.

You are absolutely self-amused, delighted, and you wait until he pinches your shoulder before you wriggle back out from your hiding place, taking a seat next to him, drinking from your wine goblet as if nothing transpired.

Chancing a glance at him, you offer a toothy grin; his expression is torn between sternness and post-orgasmic euphoria, and you bark out a laugh when you see that his own wine goblet is now misshapen, the cup distorted from his fingers gripping it. He makes a low warning sound at your amusement.

“If you think I’m letting that little stunt go unpunished, Y/N, you are _dreaming_.” His words are lustful and promising, and you shiver.

“Oh, I’m counting on your wrath, Geralt.” You reply, sugar-sweet, and cast your gaze over at the oblivious crowd. “Stop staring at me. We’re here to do a job.”

He makes a sound that’s almost amused, and that’s when you know that you’re _definitely_ in for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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